by Ana Leigh
"Keep those people back," Doug ordered, returning to the corpse. "I don't want this site contaminated any more than it has been already."
At that instant the night reverberated with the whistle of roman candles streaking skyward and bursting with deafening boom into a myriad of color.
"What happened?" a multitude of voices inquired around Jess.
"Someone got hurt, I guess," others replied.
Jess covered her ears to muffle these sounds from the curious who crowded in around her. The pyrotechnic display in the sky overhead cast the ground below in an ever-changing kaleidoscope of color. The heat from the pressing crowd became suffocating. The sound overhead shattering. The smell of sulfur from the exploding fireworks stung her nostrils.
She felt as if she were in the midst of a surreal nightmare as she stared, horrified, at the body lying on the ground.
The dead man's hands were tied behind his back, his head and face swathed in plastic.
* * *
Chapter 14
«^»
More security guards arrived along with some M.P.D. Doug ordered them to get the crowd back and string up some crime scene tape. And as they did so, in a bizarre contrast, thousands of other people continued to cheer the fireworks overhead, unaware of the drama being enacted just a short distance away.
Doug came over to Jess and put his arm around her shoulders. "Jess, in a few minutes this spot's going to be crawling with activity. I'll be tied up here for awhile."
"I don't mind waiting, Doug."
"No. You can take my car. One of the police officers will escort you to it." He handed her his car keys. "Park it at your place and leave the keys in the glove compartment. I have a spare key in my wallet." He looked at her longingly. "I'm sorry, Jess. This sure isn't how I planned to end the evening. I'll call you in the morning."
He nodded to a nearby uniform policeman and the officer came over. "Ready, ma'am?"
Jess nodded.
For a moment Doug watched as the patrolman led her away. She was the most incredible woman he'd ever known. The whole evening had been magical. That's exactly what it had been – an enchanting illusion. He should have known it couldn't last.
He turned and went back to the real world of Doug McGuire.
He was in the process of getting the names and addresses of the two young boys who discovered the body when Vic and the crime scene investigators arrived. The situation was made considerably more workable when the fireworks ended and the police routed the exiting crowd away from the crime scene. The Summerfest crew had rigged up floodlights to aid the investigation by the time the CSI crew removed the plastic from the victim's head.
"Recognize him?" Doug asked when he and Vic hunched down and studied the face of the corpse.
"No. I've never seen him before. At least he wasn't one of our cases."
"He is now," Doug said grimly. "So what can you tell us?" he asked the woman from the medical examiner's office.
"Victim's a male Caucasian. Looks about mid-forties. No bleeding or entry wounds. Ligature marks around neck and petechial hemorrhaging on eyelids would indicate death by strangulation."
She looked up and smirked. "He's stiffer than a board, so it's either rigor mortis or he's frozen. There's no body decomposition, but the water temperature is only forty-five degrees so that would delay it. Death could have occurred anywhere from four hours to four days ago. My guess is he's been in the water for a couple days, but I'll know more—"
"When you get him in the lab," Doug said. "Yeah, we know the drill."
"What do you guys expect? You want me to find the perp for you?"
While one guy from CSI was taking pictures, another one came over and took prints and hair samples of Doug and the two security guards who helped pull the victim out of the water.
"You guys aren't supposed to touch the victim until we do our thing," he grumbled, yanking at several of Doug's hairs, folding them up in paper, and squeezing them into a pill box. "Now the hair and prints of you guys are probably all over the victim."
"We'll be glad to shove him back into the water, if you feel like a swim," Doug declared.
Vic put on gloves and riffled gingerly through the contents of the victim's wallet. "Name's Marcus Sands according to his driver's license. Lives in a pretty fair neighborhood, and he's got a couple hundred dollars in his wallet." Doug wrote down the address and Vic handed the wallet over to CSI.
"Let's split, partner," Doug said. "Nothing more we can do here … unless we collar the two kids as suspects," he added, cynically. "As soon as they run his prints, we'll see if he's got a record."
On the way back to the precinct Vic dropped Doug off at Jess's condominium to pick up his car. Before pulling out, Doug dialed Jess on his cell phone. Just the sound of her "hello" was a pick-me-up for him.
"Just calling to say good night."
"I'm glad you did, Doug." He could visualize her smile, and the way it would light up her eyes. "How are things going?"
"We're all finished at the lake."
"Where are you now?"
"Downstairs in my car."
"Are you coming up?" Her voice held a velvet huskiness that made him want to forget all about dead bodies floating in rivers and lakes. Oh, God, how he wanted to just curl around her and never let go.
"Can't. I'm on my way back to the precinct. I've got to get going."
"I understand. Good night, Doug. And try and get some sleep."
"Yeah, right. Good night, Angel Face."
He hung up and pulled out of the parking lot.
As soon as Doug drove away, a figure moved stealthily out of the bushes.
* * *
So they finally found our friend, Mr. Sands. He's been dead for the past two days. I was afraid that maybe his body had drifted out of the breakwater and sank. That would have spoiled the fun.
As it was, it worked out well after all. A real send-off for Summerfest, wouldn't you say? And McGuire right there when the body was discovered. What a treat. I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried.
I watched you a lot tonight. You and McGuire were really having a good time together. I can see how much you love him, Jessica, and for your sake I hope I don't have to kill him. But my hands are tied – or maybe I should say his will be – if he doesn't leave me alone.
I'll be going back to using the river. Besides, I like the term the "Rollin' On the River Murders." Sherilyn Matthews coined the phrase using the words from the chorus of that old "Proud Mary" song. You remember it, don't you, Jessica? I know you don't like Miss Matthews, but you have to admit it's kind of funny.
The figure sashayed away singing "'Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river. Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river.'" Then broke into laughter.
* * *
By the time Doug walked into the precinct, Vic had already run a search on Marcus Sands.
"No rap sheet. Nada. Nil. Zilch. We'll have to wait for the prints. Maybe we can get a match."
"Sands is probably an alias," Doug said. "Up to now Crusader Rabbit's only hit murderers who've walked. I figure Sands must be a member of that fraternity."
"Well, if he is, he didn't look familiar to me."
"Pretty hard to get a good look at him in the dark. Let's check out his place and see what we can dig up."
"If he didn't live alone we'll need a warrant, partner," Vic said. "You wouldn't want to upset your girlfriend."
"So we'll break the news to whoever lives with him, and get invited in," Doug replied, and headed for the parking lot.
* * *
Marcus Sands lived in an apartment building near the campus of Milwaukee's University of Wisconsin. The superintendent's name was Attwater, and he didn't appreciate being awakened at such a late hour.
They flashed their badges, and then Vic said, "Mr. Attwater, we understand you have a tenant named Marcus Sands."
"That's right. Apartment 108
at the rear. Did something happen to him?"
&nb
sp; "Why do you ask?" Doug said.
"Ain't seen him around for a couple of days, and his newspapers are piling up in front of his door. Ain't like him to let that happen."
"So I gather Mr. Sands lives alone," Vic said.
"Yep."
Doug decided he'd let Vic do all the questioning. Vic had the patience for it.
"Any girlfriend or anyone come to visit him on a regular basis?"
"How would I know? I've got forty-eight apartments here. I don't pry into the personal business of any one of my tenants."
"How long has Sands lived here?"
"About five years," Attwater said.
"Has he had any previous trouble with the police?"
"Ain't you the police? You ought to know better than me. He's a good tenant. Don't cause no trouble, minds his own business, pays his rent on time and he don't bring in women at night. You gonna tell me why you're asking all these questions?"
"Mr. Sands's body was found floating in Lake Michigan tonight."
Attwater's eyes almost popped out of his head. "You mean he drowned?"
"We don't have the coroner's report yet," Vic said. "Do you know the name of his closest relative, or someone to contact in the event of an emergency?"
"Ain't got a clue." Attwater's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Does it look like he was bumped off like one of them 'Rollin' On the River' murders?"
"Why do you ask? Did you see him talking to anyone suspicious lately?" Doug asked, impatiently.
"No. I told you he stayed to himself. Didn't talk to nobody. It was foul play, wasn't it?"
"Where did he work?" Vic asked, patiently continuing on with routine questioning.
"I don't think he had a job."
"Then how did he support himself?"
"I told you, I don't pry into—"
"Cut that crap, Attwater," Doug burst in, unable to restrain himself. "You probably know what every one of these tenants eats for breakfast and how many times a day they take a leak. Now quit trying to jerk us around, and start giving us some straight answers."
"He gets some kind of a check each month. Trust fund or something like that."
"Who from?"
"I don't know." His glance swung to Doug. "I swear. I don't know."
"Does he own a vehicle?"
"If he does, he don't park it here."
"All right," Vic said. "We want to take a look in his apartment now."
"You got a search warrant?"
"We don't need a warrant as long as Mr. Sands lived alone," Vic explained.
"Are you sure about that?"
"Open the damn door!" Doug declared, exasperated. He strode down the hallway.
Attwater grabbed a chain of keys hanging from his wall. "I was only trying to cover my butt. What's he so all fired up about?"
"Hemorrhoids," Vic said aside, in a confidential tone.
Attwater nodded. "Oh, yeah. That'll do it every time. Especially in this heat."
Sands's apartment was as tidy as a model house. There wasn't a book out of place or a spot of dust on the furniture. His suits and shirts were hung neatly together by color: blues, grays, browns. The white shirts were on their own. Corresponding shoes sat on the floor beneath each grouping.
The bureau drawers were the same. All his underclothes were in neat little piles. One of the drawers was even partitioned for socks and marked with paste-on tags to identify what color belonged in them. The same grouping and tags applied to the bathroom towels and bed sheets in the linen closet.
There were a few routine over-the-counter drugs in the medicine cabinet, but no prescription drugs.
"This guy was a freak!" Drug grumbled, after moving on to a search of the desk drawers. There wasn't a piece of paper or pencil out of place.
Vic came out of the kitchen. "You won't believe this guy, McGuire, all the food on the pantry shelves is arranged alphabetically."
"By product or producer?" Doug asked. He continued on with the search of the desk. He found the name and address of a New York fiduciary handling a trust account payable to Sands, some rent and utility bills and monthly statements for the rental of a storage locker. All had been paid by cash.
Doug was puzzled by the fact that Sands had no telephone or answering machine, so he either communicated by cell phone or public telephone – if he communicated with anyone at all. But there were no receipts to indicate he used a cell phone.
He shook his head. The guy had to have one. How in hell could he order a pizza?
On their way out Doug paused in the doorway and looked back. Something caught his attention. "Hold it, Vic."
He went over and hunched down to study some faint smudge marks on the floor. "What do you make of this?" he asked, when Vic joined him.
"It looks like a muddy tire tread," Vic said. "Bicycle maybe."
"It's narrow enough for a bike, but I don't think so." Doug pointed to a parallel tread. "This looks like a double track. And look over there." He scrambled across the floor to a faint similar track near the door. "Here's another one. Same double tread. A wagon maybe, or a cart of some kind."
Doug jerked up his head, hit by a new possibility. "A wheelchair! Maybe this Sands guy was handicapped."
"You'd never guess by the condition of his living habits. This place is spotless," Doug said.
"That's right, so Mr. Clean would never have tolerated muddy tire marks on the floor."
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Vic asked.
"That's right, partner. If it's tracks from a wheelchair and Sands didn't use one, that may be how the killer was able to move the bodies. Let's wake up that super again."
* * *
When they got back to the precinct, Doug found a lab photo of Sands on his desk. He tossed it over to Vic. "Seems like I've seen him before. Do you recognize him in this close-up?"
Vic studied it and handed it back. "Yeah, he does look a little familiar, but I know it's not from any case I was ever on."
One of the women from Central Records came up and handed Doug a file. "We put your floater's fingerprints on the National wire. AFIS came up with a positive hit to those of a Mark Sanderson."
A short time later Doug was able to compare Sanderson's mug shot to Sands's autopsy photo. Another match. He glanced at the photos of the nineteen-year-old victim who had been raped and murdered by Sanderson, read the file and then passed it over to Vic.
"Read it and weep. According to the file our Mr. Sands, aka Mark Sanderson, was indicted for the rape and murder of a young woman right here in Milwaukee. It appears the D.A.'s office wouldn't cut a deal and due to the brutality of the crime asked for a charge of Murder One and life imprisonment. Since the evidence was circumstantial, the jury didn't agree, so Mr. Sanderson got a free Get Out of Jail card."
"Yeah, I remember that case now. Bronowski and Evans made the collar."
Doug nodded. "Eleven or twelve years ago. I hadn't made detective yet. Well, like Ski always said whenever one of these rapists got a free walk, 'he who rapes and gets away is sure to rape another day.'"
"You're too cynical, McGuire. Maybe the guy was innocent."
"I doubt it. Our perp may be a loony tune, but he's hell-bent to wipe up the sleaze that slips through the cracks."
"At least this knocks out one theory," Vic said. "The victims aren't only from our cases."
"Knocks out another," Doug replied. "They're not Jess's, either. According to this file, Judge Richard Thorton was the presiding judge on this case."
"I guess that means we can quit worrying we're next on the list," Vic said.
"Yeah, right. Like you were worried."
While Doug waited until it was late enough to start working the phone, the medical examiner's office finished the superficial examination on Sands. There were no surprises. The cause of the victim's death was identical to the two other victims.
Finally, after a long-distance call, the New York fiduciary of Sand's trust fund faxed them a copy of the trust. Marcus Sands was his real name, a
nd upon the death of his parents when Marcus was thirteen, his paternal grandparents had established the fund. There was still two hundred thousand dollars remaining in the trust, and with no beneficiary, the balance would revert to an orphanage in upstate New York.
By noon Doug and Vic had traced all the information they could on Sands. The Wisconsin Department of Taxation confirmed that according to Sands's filed taxes his only income was from the trust, the telephone company reported he had no record of a cell phone and a check with the Motor Vehicle Department established that he had no driver's license or a licensed vehicle in his name. None of this information changed Doug's opinion: he was still convinced that Marcus Sands raped and murdered a nineteen-year-old girl.
The only remaining thing left for them to do was check out Sands's rental locker.
Vic shoved back his chair. "We've been at this all night and half the day. I'm sorry, partner, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. I'm signing out and going home to bed."
"Yeah, go home, old man, and get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning. I figure I'm good for a couple more hours, so I'll drive out and see what Sands has in that locker."
"Before I leave, I've gotta ask, McGuire, are those hearts engraved with I love you?" Vic asked.
"What are you talking about?"
Vic pointed to the chain of hearts circling Doug's biceps. He'd forgotten all about the fake tattoos Jess had pasted on his arm. He went to the john, got rid of them, and then splashed some cold water on his face.
By the time he returned, Vic had left, and Doug sat down and dialed Jess while he waited for the warrant authorizing him to open the locker.
Hearing her voice was as good as grabbing eight hours of shut-eye. Well, maybe a couple hours anyway. He told her that he wouldn't be seeing her that night and they talked for another twenty minutes – part sex, part small talk – until the assistant D.A. showed up with the warrant.
Stepping outside was like walking into a blast furnace. The heat, humidity and lack of sleep were physically debilitating, and he was on the verge of calling it quits for the day. The grumbling in his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten, so he stopped at a restaurant, ate a breakfast instead of a lunch and then got on the expressway and headed north.